


Word to the Wise

by Regann



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regann/pseuds/Regann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally Donovan has a bit of advice for John Watson -- advice that he seems intent on ignoring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Word to the Wise

Sally has always been one for good advice.

Her sisters, her cousins, even her aunts -- when they want to know the right of it, it's Sally they call, sharing the sagas of their complicated messes with her for a chance to get a sound opinion on whatever ails them. It's something she's inherited from her mum, an uncanny ability to get to the heart of a matter when others founder in its details.

Sensible, Sally is. Dependable. Smart. Blunt. Sharp. All the things that make her a good police officer also make her a good dispenser of advice, even if telling her baby sister to give up on the same useless bloke for the twelfth time isn't quite up to the same standard as helping to catch a serial killer. But saving someone from a bad mistake with her words gives her the same kind of warm glow as a case turned good, even if it's on a much less grand scale.

Giving advice has become something of a habit, one she just can't break, especially when she can see the messy ending written so starkly against the horizon. It doesn't take a genius to see that her sister's new boyfriend is as bad as the old one, just like it doesn't take Sherlock bloody Holmes to see that there's no way it's going to end well for the freak's new companion.

That is something else Sally is sure of -- nothing good can come for John Watson from hanging around with Sherlock. There's nothing but blood and tears down that way for the doctor, she sees that plain as day.

Although she doesn't have much to go on, Sally thinks John is a nice guy: quiet, solid, a bit of humor lurking beneath the surface. He's a war hero, too, from what she understands, and he shouldn't come home after surviving the Taliban all those months to meet a bad end thanks to a high functioning sociopath. What he deserves is peace and normalcy, not bullets and corpses and random drugs busts for the rest of his days.

The whole of it grates on Sally until she comes to a conclusion: if there's anyone who needs a bit of her good advice, it's John Watson.

So when she and Lestrade stop by 221B Baker Street a few days after their latest case, because the DI has questions and, of course, Sherlock can't be bothered to come to the station like a normal human, Sally decides to leave the pair of them to their snarling and instead of settling down to watch it, she glances over at the doctor, then nods her head toward the door.

"There's a pub not too far from here," she tells him. "Fancy a pint?"

John gives her a look -- startled, she thinks maybe, but everything on his weathered face is somehow muted, so it's nothing more than slightly widened eyes and a raised brow. It's Sherlock, she notices, who looks more startled, deeply suspicious of her motives even as John nods and reaches for his jacket. The consulting detective looks like he might even want to protest over their departure but Lestrade distracts him with another question, and they slip out of the flat without further incident.

Lucky there is a pub around, and it's warm and dim and cozy; Sally herds John toward the bar, and they settle in. It's not until they both have their drinks that she speaks beyond what politeness dictates, staring into the dark shadows of her glass as she does so.

"I meant what I said, you know," she starts. "About Sherlock, I mean. One day, he's going to..."

"Kill someone?" John finishes, his tone dry and mild.

"You don't know," she tells him. "Lestrade has known him five years, I've worked with him for two, and I've seen enough to know what I'm talking about."

"Is that what this is about?" he asks, flicking a hand up to indicate her, the pints, the bar. "You've come to warn me again?"

Sally thinks back to the first time she really looked at John Watson, standing in the middle of that street, leaning on his cane, looking completely out of his depth as she informed him that Sherlock had took off without him. That was the first time she warned him, but obviously her words didn't make the impression she wanted since he still showed up with Sherlock the next time -- and the next, and the next.

"I'd rather you not be the corpse we find him standing over," she says bluntly, the way she learned from her mum, no fuss or fancy trimmings.

His answer is a huff of amusement, almost but not quite subdued. "I don't think that's likely to happen."

Sally sighs. "Look, you seem like a good fellow, definitely not one I'd like to see end up in a bad way. But that's exactly what'll happen if you keep on with the freak. Mark my words."

John is quiet for a moment. Sally hopes it means he's really listening to her, but those hopes are dashed when he opens his mouth again. "Sherlock...is strange," he admits. "But he's also the most brilliant man I've ever met. I think that counts for something."

"Yes, he is," she concedes. "But he's still twisted and barking mad."

"We get on just fine," he points out.

Sally smothers another sigh, turning the words over in her head before she says them aloud. "Besides himself, there are only two things I've seen keep his attention for more than a few minutes," she begins. "Those experiments of his and the puzzles he occupies himself with. When he's done with the first, he throws them out with the trash and when he's done with the second, he just doesn't care anymore." Sally makes sure John's eyes are locked with hers before she continues. "For him, everything falls into one of those categories, which means he'll either get tired of poking you to gauge your reaction and toss you out, or he'll move on once he's taken you apart to see what makes you tick. Does either sound like something you want?"

There is a stillness, Sally notes, in John that makes him unreadable. His eyes are placid, like the stillest lake, but she knows there are clicks and whirls behind them, processing what she's said. It's the first time since she met him that she sees something in common between him and Sherlock.

"I appreciate your concern, Sally," he finally says. "But it's fine. Sherlock and me, I mean. We're fine."

"That's not very wise of you, Dr. Watson," she tells him. "Not at all."

"Well, we don't always make the wisest choices, do we, Sally?" he asks. It's mild, like everything else about him, but there's no mistaking the subtle thrust of his statement.

She thinks of Anderson and nights spent in his bed; she thinks of his blonde little wife who returns from her holidays none the wiser. "No, we don't," she agrees. "But at least when I do it, I know all the facts. You're ignoring the obvious here."

"Which is?"

"Sherlock Holmes is dangerous."

For the first time all night, there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, something that might look like a smile on someone else's face. John is sliding from his seat and standing before he speaks again, laying down cash to cover the beer he's barely touched. This time he's the one who makes a point of catching her eye. When he does, all he says is, "No, I'm not."

On that, he walks away and that's when she notices that there's no cane, no limp in his step. It's not until then that she realizes she hasn't seen either since that first night.

She watches as he makes his way out of the pub, shoulders straight and proud, not bowed under some invisible weight. Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite what reason would tell an intelligent person, John Watson has entangled himself with the most insane person she has ever met -- and she's counting the killers she's help catch in that estimation -- but somehow looks as if he's come out better for it.

Sally doesn't know what to make of it, but she knows it doesn't make sense. She pays for her own untouched pint before she follows his example and heads out, catching up with him before he's gotten very far. She doesn't say anything else on their walk back, but keeps pace with his strong, steady gait. No hesitation in his stride, no unevenness; again, she marvels at it.

Lestrade is waiting for her outside of 221B with Sherlock, who is obviously not waiting for her. No, his eyes are on John as they come down the sidewalk, and Sally doesn't feel uncharitable to compare Sherlock's gaze to some kind of hawk watching its prey, the same way he studies dead bodies. She finds it unnerving even when it's trained on someone else; she couldn't imagine how she might feel if he ever looked at her with more than a passing glance of disdain.

John doesn't seem to have the same trouble because he meets the cutting gaze with little reaction to its acerbity, that same tug on his mouth that Sally thinks counts as a smile. Lestrade, on the other hand, looks older and grayer than he did when she left him, and his relief at their return is palpable. It's obvious he's had enough of his consulting detective for the moment and probably for the weeks ahead.

"Donovan, let's go," he barks, all but running to get away. Sally crosses to the passenger side while Lestrade opens the driver's door. He looks back at Sherlock and John, now standing together, and sighs. "Sherlock, I'll call if something else comes up."

"Text, please," comes the reply, deep-voiced and smug as always. "I don't really want to talk to you if I can avoid it."

Lestrade rolls his eyes toward heaven like he requires saintly guidance to deal with him. Sally silently agrees. "Fine, but try to stay out of it until I do, all right?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he climbs in because they all know the answer he'll get isn't the one he wants.

As the car pulls away from the curb, Sally glances over the hunch of Lestrade's shoulders to where John and Sherlock stand talking, heads bent close as Sherlock gestures with a little more emphasis than probably necessary for whatever conversation they've struck up in the past few minutes. John nods along as he listens, like nothing in the world could be more interesting. Sally watches for as long as she can keep them in her sight, until they are no more than a dark spot far in the distance behind them.

She thinks back on what she's seen of them together, on what John said in their short conversation and can't help but be frustrated. Sally feels like she has so many pieces of a puzzle, and while she's quick enough to know they add up to something she hasn't realized yet, she's not clever enough to figure out what it is.

But it's there, right outside her reach, a conclusion she's only just missed in the way John almost smiles at Sherlock and the way Sherlock watches John. Whatever it is, though, it eludes her. For the first time in a long time, Sally can't cut to the bone of it; she's bogged down in Sherlock's insanity and John's quiet quirks, in the studied contrast of Lestrade's freak consultant and the freak's new bosom buddy. If it were anyone else, she might guess the heart of it is, indeed, the heart, but the lived details of the two men make that simplest answer too fantastic to believe.

So all Sally can do is set aside the problem of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, knowing that she's done her best. As her mum has always said, there's nothing to be done when good sense falls on deaf ears but hope for the best while bracing for the worst.

When it comes to those two, Sally can't imagine any better advice.

The End.


End file.
